


crossroads

by gravewalke_r



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drabble Collection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-10 08:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15945590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravewalke_r/pseuds/gravewalke_r
Summary: some solavellan drabbles i just felt like writing. some are connected, some aren't.





	1. I.

He had always known she was  **different** from the others, long before she woke up.

It wasn’t just because she hadn’t her face marked with the Vallaslin, not like many others he had met during his journeys through Thedas. No, his interest and curiosity were aimed somewhere else. She had survived the explosion, she physically walked in and out of the Fade as if it were nothing and yet she  _ lived _ . The orb didn’t do much to her, not as much as he had expected at least, and he wasn't sure if it was only one of the effects of the explosion that ripped the skies open or if it was because the elf was just...  _ special _ .

But despite his efforts, she wouldn’t wake up, nothing he did could close the rifts and the Breach kept spreading and so did the stolen mark on her hand and he almost gave up on his former ideas, ready to find another way to recover his powers and set his own plans into motion once more.

He was ready to leave when she arrived with Cassandra, and he couldn’t name the feeling that downright  **assaulted** him as he grabbed her wrist and watched as the rift closed with nothing more than a flick of her hand. He felt his whole world changing, like an earthquake shattering everything he believed in, everything he worked so hard to gather--but he pushed the feelings away, deeper into his soul.

But he couldn’t deny that her beauty was  _ beyond words _ .

She stood tall, taller than him and Cassandra, walking around like she **owned** the place, like royal blood ran through her veins as magic did. She didn't cower under Cassandra's threats nor the demons attacking, and she kept pressing forward even when the Anchor kept working its magic, trying to consume her as they marched towards what once was the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She was fearless, furious, untamed and fierce as the ocean itself, loud and reckless and driven by something between grief and rage--so many lives lost at the explosion, many others lost to demons assaulting Ferelden and she wept silently for them, charging into battle against demons as if she, and not Cassandra, were supposed to keep them at a safe distance from the creatures.

He didn’t need to ask to figure out she was no Dalish child, no city elf.

Yet he couldn’t figure out _what_ she really was, no matter how much he tried nor which way he looked.

“Ellana,” she had whispered in his direction once they reached the forward camp, while Chancellor Roderick and Lady Cassandra bickered about something he didn’t care about. “If there are to be presentations.”

He smiled, amused.

Whatever she was, he was decided to stay by her side until the Breach was sealed and the world was back to normal.


	2. II.

It didn’t take her long to notice he was **always** watching.

The humans probably didn’t pay as much attention as they should, but for her it wasn’t so hard to notice such a repetitive behavior. He moved quietly and he rarely sought others to talk, yet Solas lacked a certain subtlety in a very adorable way. He stood tall in his silence, dark eyes sharp and wary whenever she crossed Haven, as if he were a hawk watching over its offspring, as if his gaze alone was enough to keep danger away from her so she wouldn’t be in chains once the Breach was sealed.

She didn’t mind him standing guard, really. It felt good to know someone was still watching over her after everything that’d happened all those weeks ago. Denarin was dead, and she had fallen into a spider’s nest the moment she survived the explosion at the Conclave. _It’s a bad idea_ , she had said to the magister. _We don’t belong. Let the southerners deal with whatever they’ve done now._

But Denarin didn’t listen, always too kind and gentle for his own good, always trying to help if he could do something-- too different from what a magister was supposed to be. The world had lost many good people that day, and she had lost a great friend. She tried not to think about him as days passed by, and studying Solas served as one of the best distractions she could find in a place like Haven.

The mage respected Cassandra, yet he always kept away from Cullen and his soldiers. She knew he feared the Inquisition and its forces and she could understand, really. Maybe they weren’t so different as one could’ve expected. He was no city elf nor Dalish, just like her belonged to neither group. An apostate, like Cassandra had claimed when they first met-- but something inside her shifted whenever she thought about that, rejecting such a vague description, even if she didn’t know exactly _why_.

Solas was **nothing** like her, she’d decided one day.

He was silent, calm, yet with a tongue as sharp as his gaze. Like Cullen, he carried the eyes of someone who had seen too much during his life, a never-ending sadness that was only there if one knew where and when to look. She had never been like that, and she knew that. She was angry and loud and furious, almost like Cassandra. A force of nature when she needed to be, fighting her way through rogue templars and rebel mages and demons without a second thought, never holding back even if she knew the men and women were just fighting for themselves, for their freedom.

They were _nothing_ alike, really. They were elves and fellow mages and they were fighting against the end of the world, carrying the banner of gods they didn’t even worship, and that was it-- but it didn’t mean they couldn’t _be friends_.

 _Maybe more than that_ , a treacherous voice whispered on her mind once, and she just decided to ignore such a preposterous idea. Solas was wiser, older. He’d traveled the world and the Fade and his expertise was just too vast. He’d **never** look at her as a woman. He probably even had someone else waiting for him to return after the Breach was sealed, someone that was safe from the chaos spreading through Ferelden.

They could be **friends** , and that was fine.


	3. III.

She watched him as much as he watched her, he figured out soon enough.

He couldn’t understand why nor remember when it truly started, but somewhere down the line it became a sort of silent, amusing game between them, and he indulged for the sake of their blossoming friendship. She was a rare soul, full of bravery and determination and kindness, and for the first time in a long time he felt like reconnecting with one of the olds, like meeting a friend that could understand him, _truly_ _understand him_ , among too many **Tranquil-like** children.

For the first time in forever, he felt like finally finding his way back  **home** after being lost for an eternity.

No one could _ blame _ him for getting too close, too attached.  
No one had been left to judge him but his own charred conscience.

He’d have more than enough time to ponder on his ruined plans later, once he recovered the Anchor. For now he could be selfish as he once had been many eons ago, he could allow himself to enjoy her presence and her friendship. And he couldn’t,  _ wouldn’t _ ask for no more than that--she was the Herald, their hero, their savior. The one that held the key to their salvation. On top of that, the world was about to fall over their heads at any given moment.

He doubted she’d ever look at him as a  **romantic** partner.

They flirted sometimes, that was true-- but she did  _ the same _ to others she cared about, seeking nothing but moments of fleeting happiness, a way she had found out to ease the grim mood whenever it settled. It was a friendly gesture, something she did out of habit. It meant nothing, not really. And even if he preferred she’d give him some kind of  _ special _ treatment from time to time (as if he’d  **earned** it, as if she should look at him in any other way just because he thought he deserved it), he enjoyed the banters, indulged once more to her whims because he didn’t know better. 

As the Inquisition’s influence and her own control over the Anchor grew, he took time to learn whatever he could about her.

She loved to braid her hair-- it was long, dark as night, and she cared for it as one cared about a pet. She’d braid it in many different ways, always working on a new design whenever she could. She was careful not to let get it in the way whenever they were battling, locks safely kept in a rushed bun so it wouldn’t get stuck in her staff as she danced around the battlefield dressed in a halla’s grace-- but sometimes she’d move too fast and the bun would fall off.

That was usually when he’d forget  _ how to breath _ for a moment or two.

Back at Haven, she was… a creature he’d never expected to meet in this world.

She’d laugh freely at Varric’s jokes and they’d talk about everything and everyone through an entire night, nevermind if she should be well rested for a three-days trip on the next morning or if they were supposed to hunt more Venatori down. She’d dance with a drunk Sera in the middle of a full tavern and she’d climb The Iron Bull’s giant body just because she’d  _ been dared to _ . She’d spar with Cassandra for no reason at all.

She’d pick flowers with Cole and talk about nugs and hallas and birds-- and sometimes, Solas allowed himself to join them.

She’d flirt with Cullen only to see the commander  **blush** , and she'd tell scandalous stories to Josephine in hushed whispers during a meeting at the war room, like children exchanging secrets in front of their parents. S he’d join Leliana in the mourning nights, and they wouldn’t return from the Chantry until the next morning, heart heavy with a never-ending grief for the ones they’ve lost and the ones they’d lose until the war was over-- but every time they emerged from the vigils, the spymaster’s expression would be a little softer than before, a little less harsh.

She’d have long talks with Vivienne about their fashion, their knowledge and how delicate ice magic could be. She’d play Wicked Grace against Blackwall and let him win every single time because she had coin to spare and she knew he was trying to help as many refugees as he could in Hinterlands. 

But the best nights were the ones she’d come at his lodging asking about the Fade and the memories he had seen, the spirits he had met. They’d talk for hours and he’d tell the most fabulous stories he could recount, and sometimes she’d tell him about her dreams and her own explorations on the Fade. 

(Sometimes she’d hold his hand when they watched the Breach, dreading what would happen if she failed yet again.)

Lost in his own foolery, he never noticed when he exactly fell for her.  
He just realized it when it was  **too late** to go back.


	4. IV.

“I watched you  _ die _ .”

Her voice is harsh, hands shaking by her sides and Solas regrets ever asking her why she’s been avoiding him for the past days. He knows he shouldn’t have pried, he knows things went terribly bad in Redcliffe -- yes, they’ve got the rebel mages fighting by their side and they’ve struck a blow on Corypheus’ forces but still, she couldn’t look him in the eyes since her return with Dorian from that rift.

“I watched you sacrifice yourself for me,” she repeats, taking in a deep breath as if to remember they aren’t alone; not that people were paying attention, really. But he knows they both enjoy some privacy in such delicate moments. “And I could do  **nothing** . So forgive me if I’m not being the best of companions right now.”

“Ir’abelas, lethallin.” Solas whispers, pulls her hand between his gently and for a moment her eyes lose the grieving spark they’ve been holding for days at end, only to be replaced by tears a heartbeat later. “But I believe in you, and I know that grim future you’ve seen won’t come to pass because you’ll do the right thing. Perhaps we can find a griffon for you to ride when you face this ‘Elder One’.”

She offers a weak, half amused smile and wipe the tears away as a child would’ve done, and he can’t help but allow himself to throw caution out of the nearest window and press a soft, comforting kiss to her forehead -- and for a second he can hear her breath getting caught in her throat but he decides to ignore it, hardens his heart once more before his foolery gets the better of him.

She’s unique, special. She deserves someone far better than him, she deserves more than someone that’s planning to do the same thing as the one she’s hunting so bravely.

He hopes she can find true happiness.   
But he knows she won’t find it in him.


	5. V.

Lavellan hums ancient elven lullabies under her breath.

Why _she_ remembers when everyone else has forgotten is **beyond** him. He wants to approach, to ask, to _demand_ answers. She shouldn't remember, just like the People can't remember anymore because of what he did, yet the long forgotten words of a language that's been dead for eons echo through the camp as she passes by, arms filled with flowers and petals stuck on her hair. If it's either pride or fear that holds his tongue back, he's not sure. Instead, he retreats, shields himself under the polite mask he keeps wearing day after day. Maybe the Dalish clan she came from knows more than most. Maybe they've taught her well, maybe the clan she comes from is one of the few he can address as _his_ people. Maybe she's one that enjoys traveling through the Veil, just like him.

He's never heard of such a rare soul since his awakening but-- he doesn't know everything about this new, Tranquil-like world.

She smiles as she climbs the stairs towards the small hut he's taken as his for the time being (just until they close the Breach and he recovers his orb, no longer than that--it's harder and harder to believe in such a lie yet he keeps telling himself the same thing over and over, because he knows he can't stay as long as he truly wants), always taking two steps at the time, with no fear of slipping on ice and falling down-- and it's happened so many times before it's a true wonder why the shemlen still holds her high, why they still see her as special when she's just like them all. She doesn't fall this time, but she leaves a trail of flower petals on the snow behind her when she's finally close enough for him to touch. He doesn't, though. He can't let himself get too close, too attached.

And before he can say anything, she places a white flower behind his ear and then bolts away, giggling like a _child_.  
After a minute, he smiles to himself.

Varric mocks him for an entire week as they travel the Hinterlands, but her smile whenever their eyes met is completely **worth it**.


	6. VI.

"Dance with me."

It's not a _request_ , he notices. Her voice is soft, smile gentle on her light-painted lips but there's something behind her golden eyes that just screams she'll not take a rejection easily. He shifts on his weight, hands clasped behind his back as if to keep as much a distance as possible from her-- but she steps closer despite his lack of response, hand raised on air and waiting, patiently, for him to take it, to take her into a dance. The songs coming from the tavern sound louder tonight, people laughing and cheering and relaxing. They deserve it, after their victory against the Elder One at Redcliffe.

"I don't dance." Solas replies, but his voice lacks enough determination to refuse properly, and she laughs.

Her hair is braided, full of little flowers she had picked on their way back to Haven, and her hand is warm when she finally grabs his wrist and pulls him against her body. He can't, he shouldn't get involved with anyone--he shouldn't get involved with _her_ , of all of his people. She's fury, mercy, determination on its purest way on earth. A rare spirit that somehow ended up stuck in the middle of too many wars and never once she faltered, never once she ran from a fight.

She's **everything** he'll never be, and much more.

She fights for people she doesn't even know. She loves and cares too deeply for people that aren't _hers_ , people that aren't even elvhen-- and it doesn't matter to her because somewhere down the line, they have become her family. All of them, humans and dwarves and elves and even qunaris. They're **her** people, and that's all she cares about.

And he can't be part of that, not when his love for his own people is greater than what he feels for them, for her.

" _Ma melava halani_." She whispers, and he forces himself to stand his ground under the weight of the sweetness in her voice. It's not fair and she knows that, yet she keeps pushing and he doesn't know why, he doesn't understand why she'd think of him in such a way--yet his hands rest on her hips, chest almost glued to hers. Too late to go back now, to push her away and pretend none of this has ever happened. There are curious eyes on them, he knows that and she knows that as well; she cares nothing about it, and he decides not to care as well. "'Tis my way to repay for that. One song, _lethallin_."

" _Ma nuvenim. Ir'mirthadra, da'len_ **.** "

Lavellan smiles, bright and endearing, and every doubt swimming on his head are gone in a moment.

He can worry about the end of the world tomorrow.


	7. VII.

He finds her easily; she tries to hide from the scouts and their companions, but he follows the Foci’s thrumming power even if he knows she wants to be alone. The ice is still melting slowly at the beach torn asunder by Hakkon’s magic, but Solas finds her sitting atop an untouched stone-- her hair dances around her as the sea wind passes by and kisses her face, her bare shoulders. She feels his presence as well, but she doesn’t move; he shouldn’t be here, not after what he’s done to her but his heart betrays him once again and he finds himself ankle-deep into freezing waters, close enough to touch.

“I suppose elvhen are fated to this, eh?” Lavellan says, and the wave of shame that runs down his body is enough to make him take a step back, hands safely clasped behind his back as she talks. “Forgotten by the world we save, over and over again.”

“It won’t happen to you.”

She laughs, but it’s sad and heartbreaking, and he braces himself for the emotional hit that he’s sure will come because he deserves it, he deserves her hate and anger--but she’s better than that, she’s better than him and all the Inquisitor does is sigh deeply, arms wrapped around herself as she watches the motion of the calm sea.

“You said you had dreams. Plans.” He bites on his tongue, curses his stupid curiosity but it’s too late now. The sadness in her voice when speaking to Ameridan had been too clear, too painful to ignore. “Maybe, when this is over, you could...”

“ _Garas quenathra?_ ” She replies, and for the first time since their breakup she allows the pain to wash over her words, and he forces his gaze away even if she’s not looking at him. “What do you know about my dreams, my plans? You walked away. You keep me in the dark and expect me to deal with it.”

“ _Ir’abelas, da’len._ ” He whispers, almost praying for the gods that aren’t there anymore for her not to listen, not to push the conversation any further because he can’t--he loves her so much. He can’t drag her into yet another war, another path that’ll end up in death and sacrifice. “I know I hurt you, I know you’ll never forgive me for that. And you’re right to be angry.”

“I’m not angry, Solas.” Lavellan says, exhaustion suddenly dripping from her entire small body, as if she’s just lost a battle against herself, one she’s been fighting for so long-- and in that moment he just knows whatever she’s going to say will be hurt more than leaving her behind in Crestwood. “I’m _disappointed_. I keep asking myself what I’ve done wrong, why I don’t deserve your trust.”

He swallows back the second wave of shame that hits him stronger than one of Hakkon’s attacks, and the urge to run away and hide once more is too great--but his body doesn’t follow, doesn’t move as he wants, and he wonders if she’s the one keeping him in place or if it’s just his own spirit refusing to leave her alone yet again in a moment of need. But there’s nothing he could’ve done in that moment, at the waterfall. She’d never believe him; she’d never trust his plans, because her people aren’t his people.

(He can’t tell her who he truly is behind the mask because he doesn’t know himself anymore, and it scares him greatly, more than anything else could.)

She quiets down, eyes once more glued at the ocean as if it’d help her forget he’s ever approached her in the first place, and he walks away before he can hurt her with his endless amounts of selfishness even further.


	8. VIII.

He likes to think he's got a decent share of self-control; he's endured a lot through his life, and at some point patience has become a trait he holds on too tightly. He can deal with a lot, to Sera's stupid jokes to Morrigan trying to tell him tales of his own people, tales he's been part of-- but the Inquisitor's never-ending pacing around the room is something more by now. He tries to ignore her, to pretend not to listen to her incessant shifting but at some point it becomes too unbearable even for him. He has no idea how Cole deals with this for so long; maybe he's a spirit of compassion _and_ patience. That'd explain much more.

"I can't believe he's done such a thing when I clearly--"

He moves swiftly, faster than she could ever notice, and not a moment later his arms are wrapped around her lithe form, pushing her against the bed and pressing his own body against her; she's fire and storm and everything in between, and she should know better than provoke him so openly, as if he'd just stand by and watch as he did so many times before, when things were chaos and madness and the world falling over their heads as they spoke. She's quiet under him, but her eyes are filled with too many feelings he doesn't dare to name, and Solas offers a smile before moving to capture her lips on his. She tastes like home, bittersweet and comforting and more-more-more; Lavellan sighs, but it's a content noise, and her hands are dancing on his back as she pulls him close, between her legs, and he accepts the invitation quite happily.

Such peaceful moments like these are rare, and for the first time in a long time he's allowing himself to enjoy it as much as possible.


End file.
